


deer in the headlights

by friendlyghost



Category: Assassin's Creed - All Media Types, BioShock Infinite
Genre: F/F, Head Injury, Second person POV, Spoilers for WWI Content (Syndicate)
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-09-13
Updated: 2019-10-24
Packaged: 2020-10-17 11:28:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,646
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20620280
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/friendlyghost/pseuds/friendlyghost
Summary: Elizabeth never meant to end up in this universe, let alone trapped there by some ancient goddess. But she may as well make the best of it, right?





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [the hearts that whisper on our sleeves](https://archiveofourown.org/works/10734243) by [QuickYoke](https://archiveofourown.org/users/QuickYoke/pseuds/QuickYoke). 

> I would like to preface this by saying this is DUMB. It’s a 500-word intro to what will hopefully be a longer fic, and I’m posting it instead of being responsible. Will I write more? Hopefully!
> 
> That said, this idea would have never occurred to me if Jenna hadn’t found the amazing, incredible series “to the devil in his own way” by QuickYoke. If you’ve clicked on this, you’ll certainly like that one! Read it read it read it!
> 
> All that said, this intro is a bit tonally different from the rest of the fic. Hope you enjoy reading!

After you kill your father with your bare hands, you spend some time traveling. You’re sort of disillusioned with the whole _going to Paris_ thing. But travel in general is nice. Hopping between dimensions, looking for other versions of Booker Dewitt or Zachary Comstock that somehow escaped, killing them too.

It’s a successful endeavor. Any world with the potential to have a Columbia is a bad one, so you remove that potential. Easy. It’s your sole focus, the one task you have to do. You block out any possible distractions, anything that could pull you from your task. You’re not Elizabeth and you’re certainly not Anna; you’re simply the woman who is going to stop the world from being destroyed.

And if you become less of a woman, less of a _person_ in the process, then you weren’t really much of one to begin with, were you? From a bird in a cage, a princess in a tower, to whatever you are now. It’s a change for the better; no one likes a cliche. No one likes you anyways, of course; there’s no one to like you.

Until the day you fuck up.

You’re standing in an alleyway over the body of a fifteen-year-old boy who dreamed of joining the army and hunting Indians. Good riddance to bad rubbish, as you overheard his mother—your grandmother—saying. You’re in the process of opening a tear when you hear voices from the main street, voices that sound like the Luteces.

It startles you badly enough that you lose track of where-when you were opening the tear to, and you step into it without looking.

You freeze.

No, that’s not quite right.

Someone has frozen you.

You hear a crackling noise, and the shape of a woman appears in the sky.

“You shouldn’t be here,” she says, with a voice terrible and distant and echoing. You can’t talk, but you’re not sure you would know what to say if you could. This being seems a little out of the scope of what you’re capable of dealing with.

“Even we of the Isu knew better than to meddle with dimensions and parallel universes,” it—she continues. “Once again, humanity fails us and themselves.

“I do not have the power I once did. But I have enough to limit your abilities, for a time,” the woman says. She’s smiling, as much as a woman made out of gray shards of light can smile.

You want to scream. You can’t, and that’s the worst part of all of this.

“This will not be forever, and there are allies in this place. But this will be a much-needed lesson not to meddle with forces beyond your comprehension,” she announces, and suddenly you’re falling,

falling,

falling,

and then you’re standing.

You’re on the edge of a street. There’s people here, more than you’ve seen in one place for a long time, and they’re all moving around, children running around and young women fanning themselves and older gentlemen in suits. All the buildings are tall and brick and it smells of smoke and waste, more alive and more imposing than Columbia ever was. You look for that internal sense you have, the one that tells you where-when you are.

It’s not there.

Your name is Elizabeth Comstock, and you have never been so alone.


	2. Chapter 1: Horses and Hospitals

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Elizabeth gets kicked in the head by a horse. Also, the Frye twins are properly introduced.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We're back in business folks! Not sure how regular updates will be or where this fic is going, but it's fun while it lasts. Please disregard all historical inaccuracies.
> 
> On getting kicked in the head by a horse: If you've ever been around horses, you were probably told to walk either very close or very far behind them to avoid getting injured. Close = less force, far = out of range. Horses can kick approx. 6 ft, so I picture Elizabeth to be just inside that distance—close enough to get kicked, but not close enough for an injury worse than a (bad) concussion. Sources: 10+ years of riding experience and also, I gave myself a concussion once. 
> 
> This chapter was brought to you by Jenna's editing skills and Neon Trees. Posted on: 10/24/19.

Okay. 

Take a breath.

You’re alone, and trapped here without any access to your powers, but this is probably fixable. Time to find a solution. You start walking, stepping over the sewage in the gutter and down into the street. 

You’re part of the way across, gaze fixed straight ahead, when you hear several voices shouting “Oi, watch out miss!” and “Careful there!” You look around. There’s a carriage headed straight towards you, driven by a woman yelling “Look out!”

You go to open a tear to a universe where the carriage isn’t there, and oh, right. You can’t. And Booker isn’t about to pull you out of the way either. So now you’re just standing in the middle of a road with a carriage barreling towards you, waving your arms like a madwoman.

At the last second, the carriage swerves out of the way. You think you’re clear, and that’s when a hoof strikes you right in the middle of your forehead. Your world goes black, and the next thing you know you’ve stumbled backwards and there’s a hand holding onto your arm. You blink, but you can’t seem to make your vision focus. The world isn’t spinning, not exactly. It’s just...fuzzy. Like you’re looking at it through fog or warped glass. It’s also getting blurrier the more you look at it. Funny. You’re not sure you’ve experienced anything quite like this before, except maybe when you were in the hospital, before Booker rescued you. 

“Is she alright?” a woman says. You look towards the direction her voice is coming from and see—pale skin. Dark hair that’s either braided back or an extremely odd shape. Dark clothing, more like something you would wear than anything typical for the period—that you can tell, anyways. She’s surprisingly close to you, only a few feet away. You have no idea how she got there that fast. 

“I’m—I’m fine,” you mumble. “Just need to lay down for a bit,” and you sway and then the world goes black. 

—

You get flashes of what’s going on as you swim in and out of consciousness. Being carried to a carriage and placed gently inside, the door closing behind you. Trying not to puke as the carriage jolts you. Being lifted out of the carriage and carried somewhere, a male voice saying “A carriage accident? Evie, I can’t believe this,” and a woman replying, “Shut up, Jacob.” Entering a building and being carried up stairs, being laid down into a stiff, scratchy cot. The same woman saying, “Thank you for this, Sister Nightingale—I didn’t think the train was the best place for her after getting kicked in the head.” Another woman saying, “Of course, my dear. Anything after what you did. Now, tell me again what happened...” and their voices fading out. At some point, you go from “passed out” to “asleep”, probably for the better. You can’t remember the last time you actually got a full night’s rest. 

When you wake up, you’re in an actual bed, and there’s an older woman in a uniform sitting at your side.

“Oh goodness, you’re finally awake,” she says, helping you sit up.

“How long was I asleep?” you ask, with all the bleariness of someone who is both concussed and freshly awake.

“It’s just gone midnight, miss, you’ve been asleep for most of the day,” the woman says. “Are you having any problems with your memory?”

You think about all of that for a moment. “I’m not from...around here,” you say. “I didn’t know the date or where I was to begin with, but I do remember how I got here and how I, you know, got kicked by a horse.”

The woman nods. “Well, you’re in London, and it’s the eighteenth of October, 1868.” London. You haven’t been there before. 

“The Fryes dropped you off a bit ago, but they’ll be back sometime tomorrow to check on you, miss,” the woman continues.

“Who are the Fryes?” you ask. “And please, call me Elizabeth.” 

“Oh! Then you must call me Florence, I suppose,” the woman—Florence Nightingale? Oh my gosh. Your nurse is Florence Nightingale. Some people just exist in all universes, you guess—says. “The Fryes are twins, about your age. They’re committed to helping the city, but they cause as many problems as they fix, if I’m being quite honest. Miss Evie is the one that hit you with that carriage, but both she and Mister Jacob brought you here.”

Twins. Hopefully they’re actual twins, and not like the Luteces. 

“I see,” you say drowsily. “And...you said they’ll be back tomorrow?”

“Oh yes,”  _ Florence Nightingale _ says. “I believe Evie feels quite guilty about the whole thing, hitting an innocent young woman with her carriage like that.”

Innocent. You would laugh, but you’re too tired.

“Falling asleep again? I suppose it is quite late, even if you have been sleeping for quite a while. I will see you in the morning, Elizabeth,” are the last words you hear as you drift back into sleep. 

—

When you wake up the next morning, one of the other nurses helps you sit up in bed. You’re tired, but not sleepy-drowsy tired; more like a bone-deep exhaustion with a side of disorientation from the concussion. The nurse gives you water and surprisingly soft bread. She’s a bit older than you; you’d place her around thirty. She’s businesslike but kind, in a dark habit with mousy brown hair tied in a bun at the nape of her neck. 

She also helps you bathe and wash your hair and gives you a clean, soft nightgown. You have to wonder whose it was—it doesn’t seem like something the hospital would have on hand. Another gift from the mysterious Fryes? Something from your nurse or Sister Nightingale? She doesn’t seem to mind that you’ve barely said a single word to her this whole time, as she’s washed and brushed your hair for you and helped you in and out of bed. Suddenly, your silence seems inexcusable and rude. You remember once being so excited to talk to and spend time with people that you ran and spun and danced on a boardwalk. What happened to that girl? What happened to that Elizabeth?

Whatever it was, it was probably sometime between watching Booker slam Comstock’s head into a baptismal font and drowning Booker yourself.

But.

Still.

Where did she go?

As your nurse helps you lay back down in bed, you make a choice. “Thank you for your assistance, Sister,” you say quietly.

The nurse looks surprised, but pleasantly so. A smile spreads across her face, changing it entirely. “You’re welcome, Miss Elizabeth. I’ll stop by again in a couple hours, but you can ask one of the other nurses for assistance if you need something before then.”

You nod quietly, not bothering to ask how she knows your name. “Actually, would you mind bringing me a book? I like reading, and I’m sure sitting in bed isn’t the most interesting thing I could be doing,” you say.

The nurse looks surprised for a second, then nods determinedly. “Of course, Miss Elizabeth. I’m not sure what we have in the hospital, but I’ll see what I can find.” With that, she turns and leaves your room. You settle back against your pillows and close your eyes. You’re tired of looking at the hospital room already.

You’ve been resting for only a few minutes when you hear voices coming from the hallway outside your room.

“Mister Frye, I absolutely cannot allow you to enter my patient’s room—unmarried young men and women aren’t to be alone with each other—“ that’s your nurse’s voice. You should probably ask her name.

“Nonsense,” a warm, masculine voice says. You assume it belongs to the male Frye twin—Jonathan? No, Florence said it was Jacob. “My sister will be with us and she makes a perfectly adequate chaperone.”

“I am an excellent chaperone and you would do well to remember it,” a woman says. Specifically, one Evie Frye, who hit you with a carriage while you were standing in the middle of the street like a lunatic. Her voice is colder than her brother’s, more clipped. From the tone of it, you’d guess that she’s definitely uptight enough to be a good chaperone.

“See? We’ll be fine,” Jacob says. “Now if you’ll excuse me—“ and the door to your room opens and the Frye twins walk in, followed by your very harried nurse. You’re just grateful that you’re sitting up in your bed instead of lying down. Somehow, this seems less humiliating, even though you’re still only wearing a nightgown and your hair is hanging loose around your face. 

“Miss Elizabeth, I tried to stop them—“ your nurse says.

“It’s okay, Sister,” you say quietly. “I don’t mind talking to them.”

Your nurse raises her eyebrows. “Well, I suppose this is okay.” She turns to the Fryes and says, “But you two! My patient is still injured and I expect you to respect that. If you upset her I will make you leave the hospital, is that clear?”

“Yes, Sister,” Evie says dutifully. Jacob starts to say, “Well—“ and you watch as Evie slams her elbow directly into his side. He glares at her and mumbles, “Yes, Sister.”

Your nurse glares at them once more for good measure. It’s kind of funny, because she’s around half a foot shorter than them, but the Fryes appear suitably cowed. “I’ll be within shouting distance, you mark my words,” she says, and sweeps back out of the room.

The first thing you notice about the Fryes is their appearances. They’re the same height and have the same dark hair, but you clock different eye colors—Jacob hazel, Evie blue—and Evie’s freckles within seconds. Not anything like the Luteces, then. Thank god. Jacob seems to be dressed typically for the era, with the addition of some flashy belts and—brass knuckles? Interesting.

Evie, now that you can see her clearly, is striking. Her dark hair is braided back and her eyes are clear and intense, and you were right about the clothing—a woman wearing pants is all sorts of unusual for Victorian London. Or maybe it’s perfectly normal in this universe; you don’t actually know. She has a half-cape in one shoulder and a cane at her hip, which is odd, because you don’t know why someone would carry a cane if they weren’t planning on using it. Maybe she only needs it sometimes? Either way, something about Evie is fascinating to you. You find yourself thinking that you’d like to be her friend, even though the intense expression on her face and what little you’ve heard her say has not led you to believe that she’s the kind of woman who has many friends. Also, she did hit you with a carriage.

Now that you think about it, you’ve never really had a friend, so what do you know about it.

“Elizabeth, was it?” Jacob asks. You nod. “So, Bethy—“ you narrow your eyes at him “—you’re an American.”

“More or less,” you say cautiously. Does Columbia count as America?

“We have a friend who is also American! Ned Wynert, maybe you know him?”

“Jacob, not all Americans know each other,” Evie says, without taking her eyes off you. 

“I’ve never heard the name,” you say awkwardly. 

“Shame,” Jacob says. “So! Evie! Care to explain why you hit my new friend Bethy here with a carriage?”

“I didn’t hit her with a carriage, the horse kicked her,” Evie says, practically snarling.

“And the horse kicked her...how?” Jacob asks. You remember being on the false beach in Columbia and watching two people hit a ball over a net, back and forth, back and forth, talking and laughing the whole time. This feels oddly like watching that.

“The horse kicked her when I steered the carriage out of the way,” Evie says.

“Aha! So you admit fault!” Jacob says, pointing at Evie.

“If it’s anyone’s fault, it’s mine,” you jump in. Both twins turn to stare at you. “I’m the one who stood frozen in the middle of the street as a carriage barreled towards me.”

“That’s no excuse for my sister’s behavior,” “Yes but I should have moved out of the way sooner,” both twins say, practically at once.

“And then you fell and nearly hit your head,” Evie continues. “Are you sure you’re all right? Sister Nightingale said that you have a concussion and that you didn’t know where you were.”

You remember Sister Nightingale saying that Evie felt quite guilty over the whole thing. Maybe she was right. Booker never seemed to care about you this much; or at least, not that you noticed after he told you that you scared him more than God.

“I think I am concussed,” you say. “But I didn’t really know when or where I was before I got the concussion, so that’s not part of it.”

“How could you not know  _ when _ you were?” Jacob asks. Okay. He’s smarter than he looks. 

“I—I can’t tell you,” you say.

“Why not?” Evie asks. 

“Because you’re going to think I’m crazy,” you say.

“Why don’t you try us and find out,” Evie says, crossing her arms. Jacob has the same curious-but-distrusting expression on his face. It’s only a little disconcerting, but they truly must not be like the Luteces if they don’t already know you. 

“I was born in the year 1894,” you say, and begin explaining the whole sordid tale. You skip over everything involving Booker and Comstock and Columbia instead saying that a couple pulled you between universes as a baby and, due to part of your pinky finger being left behind, you developed the ability to travel between them. You say that you were traveling between universes and when you arrived here, a weird shimmery sky-woman blocked your powers. You were just trying to get your bearings when a carriage came barreling toward you. 

—

Somewhere, a little less than one hundred and fifty years into the future, a young person disconnects from the Animus. They turn to Rebecca and Shawn in confusion.

“Fucking Juno,” both of them say in unison.

—

When you finish your tale, the Frye twins stare at you for a moment. Then, Evie crosses the room and takes both your hands in hers. You blush but allow your hands to be lifted. Evie’s are slightly larger than yours—for a second, you flash back to wrapping your hand around Booker’s and how much larger his hand was than yours. But Evie’s are different enough that the image doesn’t last long—hers are softer and paler, with a surprising number of calluses. She’s also gentler than Booker ever was. 

You watch as Evie turns your hands back and forth. She sets your left hand back on the bed and continues examining your right, with the thimble on the tip of your pinky and everything. 

“Jacob, come look at this,” she says, still holding on to your hand. Jacob comes over to the bed and looks at your right hand.

“So, that holds up,” he says.

“Yes. Your story is a bit mad, but I don’t see any reason to disbelieve it,” Evie says.

“Well,  _ you _ wouldn’t,” Jacob mutters. Evie ignores him and places your hand back down on the bed, rubbing her thumb across yours as she pulls away.

“So, you’re now in this universe, and you have no money, no job, no clothes, and no way to get any of those,” Evie says.

“Well, when you put it like that,” you say.

Jacob frowns minutely and says, “Excuse me, Bethy, but I’m afraid I need to speak with my dear sister for a moment,” and pulls Evie out into the hallway.

You’re feeling iffy on the whole “getting out of bed” thing, so you listen as best you can from where you are.

“You’re the one that wanted—“

“—security breach—“

“And everyone else isn’t?”

“Too dangerous—“

“She used to—universes—“

“—needs to recover first—“

“Obviously, Jacob, don’t be such a—“

“Okay, okay. so you think we should—“

“Yes.”

“And then—“ 

“Yes!”

“Let’s do it, then.”

You try to pretend you weren’t listening as the Frye twins barge back into your hospital room.

“Miss Elizabeth,” Evie begins.

“Bethy,” Jacob cuts in.

Evie glares at him. “Miss Elizabeth, we’re prepared to offer you a job in our organization.”

“What sort of organization is this?” you ask. You’re aware that beggars can’t be choosers, but  _ organization _ is suspiciously vague. You’d like to know at least a little more about what you’re getting yourself into.

Evie and Jacob glance at each other.

“It’s a gang,” Jacob says bluntly. “We control about half the city at the moment, and we’re working on conquering the rest.”

“Oh,” you say. You’re not sure you’ve encountered proper gangs before. “I didn’t...expect you two to be gang leaders.”

“It’s part of our charm,” Jacob says.

“Anyways,” Evie says, a bit more loudly than necessary, “we’re prepared to offer you a job in our gang, or at least help you find one. You’ll spend the next month resting in the hospital, and after that you’ll join us on the train. If needed, we’ll help you find housing elsewhere in the city. How do those terms sound?”

You think this through for a moment. “Will I need to, I don’t know, pay dues or anything?”

“Elizabeth, consider this repayment for getting you kicked in the head by a horse,” Evie says.

You blink a little. Suddenly, the ridiculousness of the whole situation hits you—you’re trapped in a strange universe without any of your powers and you got kicked in the head by a horse and now some very intimidating but friendly twins, one of whom is responsible for said kick in the head, are offering you a position within their gang. 

You make a decision.

“Yes,” you say.

“Yes?” Jacob asks.

“Yes, I accept your terms,” you say, closer to smiling than you have been in a very long time.

“Excellent. We’ll take our leave then,” Evie says. You guess you’ll see them in a month, or they’ll send you messages through Sister Nightingale, or something. She turns to Jacob and starts pulling him out the door.

Jacob catches himself on the doorframe. “And Bethy?”

“Yes, Mister Frye?” you reply.

“Welcome to the Rooks,” he grins, and pushes himself out the door.

The Rooks.

Like the chess piece?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Twitter](https://twitter.com/friendlyghsot) | [Tumblr](https://eviefrie.tumblr.com)


End file.
